|
Idle Minds Are The Devil's TV's before/after I was on the highway, traveling at good speed, broken away from the pack. My exit was coming up a few miles on the right. Someone in a red car stayed in the blind spot on my left side. I knew they were there. I felt them flit to the other blind spot on my right side as my exit approached. I gave them a whiff of death. I was a few lanes out. My exit approached, and I barreled straight for it across three or four lanes of traffic. The car behind me was fucked, I forced it over into the exit, made it hit the brakes, and come around behind me, then leave the exit lane of which he had no use. I chuckled grimly to myself. I feel no particular guilt for bringing visions of death to the stupid. I feel it is a public service. I have been laughing about something today. It is a second hand story of no consequence. I was not involved, but my friends reported it to me after it happened. We were twelve. Some of my friends were watching another, Timmy, climb a tree. Timmy was a high strung kid, descended from a criminal family. Petty criminals with delusional aspirations of grandeur, the type of crimes being something like cleaning out the petty cash drawer at work and the papers report it as "embezellment". You could try to talk to Timmy, and he'd usually resond with an array of high pitched noises. (People eventually gave up talking to Timmy.) Anyway, as the story goes, Timmy was about 25 feet up in a tree that had many limbs. He was making noises, gloating I suspect, when the tree limb that he was standing on broke. He fell, and hit every branch on the way down. By the time he hit bottom, the guys thought he was dead. His head was purple, blue, black and red. Just before he passed out, uncouncious, he stuggled to lift his head as my friends stood there in awe. "Get...my ma'." he said, collapsing. This absolutely killed me at the time. Still does. Probably will until the day I die. "Get...my ma'." I've been walking around, saying it all day. "Get...my ma'." Your last words. "Get my ma." Nice one, Timmy. "Get...my ma'." What a hoot! Coincidentally, he was all right. Well, as right as is possible, given the circumstance. There is a desk girl at the gym. She's nice. None too bright. None too good looking, either. She talks to me, and I banter back. She wants to be a writer. She is writing a story. A:"What'cha writing?" DG:"A prison story. A story of the prison experience. And I have a dog story." A:"Ah. Prison. Ever been?" DG:"No. I've been to jail, but not prison." A:"Uh-huh. Dogs. Ever been?" DG:"What? Nooooo. With a dog? No, no, no, no." A:"I'm sorry. That was horrible. I shouldn't have said that, I don't even know you." DG:"Oh, its okaaa-aay." But I do know you've been to jail, and I don't know your name. Rule of thumb: revelations of jail time should take place after name introductions, not before.
|
